Breaking the Bat
by Scopio
Summary: Breaking the Bat - Out of Arkham, Into Gotham. The Joker's back, twitchy as ever. They should have known Arkham couldn't hold him, so it's time for his revenge. To be updated when I find the time-usually once a month.
1. Out of Arkam

Disclaimer - I own nothing. -_-'

* * *

Four o-clock in the morning was the time Batman punched in his timecard and went home. It took him another hour of research and half a crystal glass of scotch underground before he actually wavered through the streets and back to his penthouse.

Bruce lay back with a groan. Four months, five, six – maybe his mansion would be finished soon and he could take only one elevator before collapsing. The engineers had promised it would be finished as quickly as possible and he was paying them quite a bit up front, but still – hiding the bat cave was harder then it seemed, especially from nosy construction men and foundation plotters.

It didn't help the stress that the Joker was loose. Again. Not even a month into the start of a lengthy, nearly infinite asylum term, the man had weaselled his way out – probably with help. There was talk of a mass riot inside the asylum days before, but from the lack of information he was receiving, he doubted it. Besides, the news would be all over the story – if it was possible to get any more over it. With the Joker free, mass rioting had only occurred inside the tabloids and newsprints, every new reporter trying to become the next writing star.

He rolled over and winced. Four men holding sawed-off shotguns had managed formed a perfect cross with him in the middle, so now he had four massive bruises encircling his torso. Reluctant to have them shoot each other no matter how accidental their deaths may have been, while relying solely on the makeshift, pieced-together body suit Lucius had – arguing all the way – made for him turned out to be a painful wakeup call as four bullets from the sound of one extremely lout blast collided with him.

He had barely managed to knock them all out before calling in an early night.

New scars, lesions, stitches, bruises – all in the name of justice. Yet justice shunned the Batman, running him down into the dregs at night while his playboy persona appeared flawlessly bright and cocky as always.

Yet his flawlessness and cockiness was slipping with every passing day, now that he knew he would never glimpse Rachel; all because of the one errant variable in a calculation that would have eventually led itself out of chaos.

The Joker said before that opposites complete each other. Bruce nearly laughed before clutching his sore ribs. No. Opposites only make the variable equal zero, not the positives he was hoping for.

Alfred was his researcher, always looking up new women, new 'distractions,' new ways to explain to the public's eye about his ever-present wounds. They must think him either a dare-devil or a failure at every extreme sport possible.

For the love of god, it was even getting difficult with the life insurance company.

Three hours later, Bruce was dead asleep when Alfred walked in with a tray loaded with protein drinks and fruit. "Now Master Bruce," he said chidingly to the sprawled figure, "don't you know by now that sleeping in your day clothes makes them difficult to iron in the morning?"

The man rolled off his king-size bed, landing with a thud on his back. "Well, it saves me the nuisance of changing."

"But then we'd have some interesting burns to explain to Madam –" Alfred shifted a card on the tray before setting it down, "- Cremi Screlleta."

Bruce cringed, forcing himself to do his daily push-ups. One. Two. Three. "Why her, Alfred?" he muttered between breathes, wincing every time his stomach flexed.

Prim, the butler replied, "Because she was the only woman available that was of your status."

"How many times do I have to say that I don't care about that?" Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty-one – twenty one?

"About one hundred, but even then I wouldn't listen."

Onehundredandfour? Bruce hit the ground with a thud, tired arms giving way. One hundred was his usual, but then again, usually he didn't lose track. Alfred sighed, one hand drifting down with a green-filled cup. "Maybe after this you can go back to torturing yourself," he said disapprovingly as the man snatched at it. "Provided it does not ruin the day plan."

Bruce went through the rest of the tray in quick succession. Finished, he asked tiredly, "So where am I taking the woman, Alfred?"

There was a distinct twinkle in the butler's eyes as he answered – and Bruce had long since learned that the man was up to no good when that happened. "Actually, I believe that it will be she who takes you around," he grinned, gathering up the empty dishes. "I suggest you enjoy your torture-free day."

"Torture free," he snorted. "Right."

* * *

The day went just as badly as he had thought. Straight away, Cremi had insisted on being called Ms. Screlleta, immediately after which he was introduced to her bodyguard. Six-foot four and more ripped then even the strongest, steroid-taking muscle man, the way Ms. Screlleta kept looking coyly at the man made it evident exactly whom she would rather be spending the day with – and where.

Then they went to a shooting gallery.

Peering through the shotgun sights, Bruce couldn't help but be reminded of the bruises decorating his torso. The same weapon was about to kill his shoulder if he shot at the miniscule red rings, ruining his chances of ever recovering at a decent rate. He was already beaten up enough by his nightly excursions; one more bruise from playboy and he was going to scream.

"C'mon, Brucie! You can do it!" Ms. Screlleta yelled from behind, his protective earmuffs doing nothing to block out her shrill voice. Bruce could almost feel her bodyguard, left unnamed, glowering in his direction.

'_She's all yours, buddy,'_ he thought, reluctantly lining up the shot before firing. Four inches to the left of the bulls-eye, exactly aligned with his first shot.

The bodyguard decided to slam him on the opposite shoulder in mock regret. "Sorry, mate," he grumbled before taking his own, dead-centre shot.

Bruce was left wincing; stitches running across his neck had just torn open at the rough treatment. "Ms. Screlleta, I'm afraid I'm going to have to abandon you for the rest of the day," he started, dropping the shotgun while sneaking a hand up to clutch at the wound. "My recent scuba diving excursion left me with a rather nasty cut and I've just re-opened it."

"My poor dear," she cooed, turning to face her apparently Australian bodyguard. "Have a lovely evening."

Eyebrows raised but too glad to be gone, Bruce turned out of the driving range and headed for his temporary bat-cave to stitch up.

* * *

The Joker was rather disgusted. No minions, no money, no mischief, no murder. And no Batman, either. He was seriously regretting breaking out of Arkham; it was more fun teasing the guards and psychiatrists in there then wandering around through the alleys.

At least he had a knife. One. Single. Lonely. Knife.

It was a bad day when the Joker only had one knife. Knives were his life, and though he lived by the blade, he didn't really expect to die by it – he was rather hoping the Batman would break before someone knifed him or, as the police were probably out in full force, shot him. Or ran him over. The Joker winced at that, idly scratching his knife along the grime covering his hands. One day out of Arkham and some little old lady behind the wheel decides to play hit and run, knocking him out of the street and into the alley he currently haunted.

Sighing, the Joker regarded the man at his feet. Alone and harried, the man had stopped at the edge of the alley to take a call on the Clown Prince of Crime's new cell phone.

Who to call? Who indeed, since most of the mob was either in jail or dead. Twenty days wasn't much time to settle mob hierarchy, though it was long enough that prominent members casually disappeared. Purely by chance, of course.

Back to the cell. Who could he call that would get him what he needed? Guns, knives, potato peelers – those things, the last one aside, didn't come cheap. Select few people could steal guns without them, but unfortunately the man he was thinking of was forty feet below an unobtrusive sidewalk square, probably dead by now. That was what you got, if not a bullet in the back, if you crossed the Joker.

Joker started dialling numbers, area code somewhere in China. Maybe if he was lucky he could convince the guy not to hang up on him this time, and from the wallet he had lifted from the unconscious man's pockets, make him ship something over. It was time for mayhem and mischief. Mayhem and mischief and mayhem and mischief and mayhemandmischiefandmayhemandmischief and murder and –

K_ting._ A sharp little metal bat flew by his outstretched arm and embedded itself into the sooty brick beneath, razor edges nicking through his new black, sadly not purple, overcoat, again thanks to the man who so kindly donated the cell phone. K_ting._ Great, there went that as well, his ear welling with drops of blood.

– And Batman. The Joker grinned and dropped the ruined phone, hearing it hit the ground with a short click. "So nice of you to join us, Bats. How've you, ah, been?"

Sadly, the cowled vigilante refused to answer, gliding down instead from the fire stairs. Joker always wondered how the man managed to sneak around on such noisy, clanging objects. Whenever he used them as exits, they gave him away.

Badly. As in little-old-lady-screaming badly.

"No answer? I, ah, can't say I'm surprised. How did you find me?" The vigilante had made one mistake, coming down like that. He had landed at the back of the alleyway, all the better to hide in. Joker kept his back to the well-lit entrance, toying with his one knife.

Should he stay or should he run for it? Even without his makeup, people could recognize the scars and start pointing, though it would be easy enough to cover his face with the overcoat's collar. Black cotton trench coats were the norm in Gotham's winter, so he could probably get away with it.

That settled, he chose the hard way. "Come on, Bats. Spill."

Batman paused. The Joker knew that ever since the Harvey Dent fiasco, _his_ fiasco, the vigilante had been hunted more than ever; well, what would you expect after taking the blame for a couple of dead cops and the murder of Gotham's White Knight? Judging by the way the bat stood, coming out in near twilight instead of night was difficult for him, especially with the police force actually actively searching for him. Bat signal busted, the bat either had a police tuner or literally was a bat.

Hopefully not the latter. Breaking him was hard enough, but if there was an animal under there, it was going to be a difficult task to finish without a lot of meat. Bats ate meat, right?

Hell, if it worked for dogs, it'd work for bats. Besides, there were so many types of meat, and not all of them were on the tasteful side.

For the bat, that is.

"Spill or I'll leave and, ah, disappear into the big, stumbling, unknowing crowd and knife someone, just to, aha, see how you'll take the blow." Joker grinned, scars tearing the muscles in his face into a mask just as useful as the makeup he wore.

"Police radar." The gravelly voice was literally music to his ears. Being locked away from stupid, blind civilization had given the man a new sense of being, and he was planning to enjoy every moment of torment he could wrench out of the vigilante before him.

Especially since he was cooperating and talking, albeit shortly. "Good, good. Now how's the kids? Fine? That's great. Wouldn't do for them to have any untimely, ah, accidents."

The Joker could have sworn a smirk had made its way onto the other man's lips, but the deep shadows in the alley made it hard to tell. "Threatening me won't work, Joker. Arkham's missed you, and I'm dragging you back to your cell."

"Not, ah, tonight you won't."

Batman's voice managed to drop to a near rumble, making the Joker, who was now edging away from the bat, struggle to hear his next words. "No, not tonight. But I'll hunt you down and stalk you, never giving you a moment's rest, making you look over your shoulder until your neck hurts. I'll find you, madman, and you better pray I'm in a good mood when I do."

The Clown Prince of Crime merely smiled and turned up his collar, waving a jaunty goodbye as he slipped into the crowd. It would appear that breaking the bat would be easier then he thought.

Much, much easier.


	2. Into Gotham

Sorry about all the uploads etc... I was looking through this and – while I promise I'll update soon _I swear_ – I noticed that I missed a bunch of things before submitting them. So here you go. Again.

And I've just realized exactly how much the uploading procedure changed from the last time I uploaded shtuff. Which was forever and a day ago.

Again, more apologies...

Recent update - spelling fixed on some stuff.

Disclaimer – I wish I owned, but I don't.

* * *

Potato peeler in hand, the Joker walked whistling, as best he could, out of the downtown Gotham Target. The potato peeler wasn't the only thing missing from the shelves in their meagre knife department, but his switchblade still needed to be replaced – difficult because The House of Knives had its switchblades under lock and key, and he still needed to get makeshift lock-picks out of Home Depot.

He still didn't have any make-up and that irked him. As much as a normal villain would have enjoyed walking around with people unawares of their identity, all the Joker got was odd looks and brief shudders; nothing like the outright, spine tingling, bone-chilling _fear_ that exuded from the sheep as a wolf passed them by. Fear of the unknown, of the strange, of _uncertainty_; all that made the Joker one very widely grinning man was missing.

So makeup was on his shopping/stealing list, right after more knives, a decent switchblade, and a fitted purple suit.

No shopkeeper in their right mind would scrounge up a purple suit for him if he was actually in full regalia, so maybe the lack of afore mentioned makeup wasn't such a bad idea.

For now.

Until he 'found' enough money or knives to buy/threaten a good tailor.

Joker walked past Wayne Tower as the sun edged over the horizon, debating whether or not to walk in and try to sweet-talk the pretty secretary into telling him where all the money was. It was a pity, he thought, that the beefy security guards were already eyeballing him and reaching for their walkie-talkies.

He hurried past, turning his face away. As much as it would be fun to rob the corporation with more money than even the mob, he needed more than just himself. Still, he filed it away mentally – it was a good idea if he was ever strapped for cash. Again.

Because even though he never cared for money, people who sold firepower did.

* * *

Bruce had retreated to his underground base and was trying to stitch himself back up when the elevator started coming down from the ceiling.

"Master Bruce, what are you doing here?" Alfred said, exasperated. "Don't tell me you left the poor woman alone to chase down a criminal."

"I don't have a mask on when I go out publically, Alfred, so I can't have chased one without the press all over me," he answered sourly. "And she is no poor woman to be abandoned lightly." Bruce handed the needle off to the man, neck held at an angle. "Not with that bodyguard of hers."

"My apologies," the man harrumphed, dropping his packages on the computer counter and starting up where Bruce had left off. "Is that where you managed to get yourself hurt?"

Bruce twitched as the needle started running up the side of his neck for the second time that day. "They had a hand in re-opening it, so yes." Right after walking – not driving because Ms. Screlleta had picked him up – over to the storage container elevator, he had stitched himself up in a mirror he had transferred to make said stitching easier. Then his police scanner picked up some woman with a Joker sighting, so he, with nothing much better to do, suited up and left.

Only to have his stitches tear when he dropped from the fire escape. If it weren't for the heavy shadows in the alley, the Joker would have had a laughing fit at the sight.

Bruce was pretty sure the demented clown was laughing at him anyway, even if he didn't know exactly whom he was laughing at.

"How long have you been trying to fix yourself up here for, Master Bruce?" Alfred interrupted his thoughts fretfully, reaching for a piece of gauze.

Bruce handed it to him. "I'm not sure – lost track of the time between coming in and stitching," he said thoughtfully, keeping his face stoic when the butler doused his neck in antiseptic. Wary, he asked, "Why?"

"Because you already have a rather nasty scab forming over where you did not manage to suture." A bandage firmly fixed around Bruce's neck, Alfred took a step back to frown at his handiwork. "And if I'm not mistaken, there were bits of your suit inside."

"Where did you learn so much about wounds, Alfred?"

"From stitching you up, Master Bruce."

* * *

Joker found himself wandering in circles around Wayne tower, idly walking down streets and finding it dead in front of him. It would appear, in Gotham at least, that all roads lead to the new Rome.

Unfortunately, new Rome had cameras and didn't exactly want company. "You."

The Joker twitched and rammed his potato peeler behind him, skewering one of the guards who had been watching him earlier. "Yes, ah, me," he grinned, trying to yank his makeshift weapon back out of the man's chest.

The thick strands from the ripped Kevlar vest the guard was wearing tangled up in the narrow opening, turning his smooth tug into a tug-of-war, one the guard was both winning and losing. Winning because he kept the Joker busy while his fellow guards were scrambling outside to help him, but losing because of, well, repeated jab wounds from a dull potato peeler.

"I'm, ah, not usually one to give up on a knife, but, well, I'll make this an exception." He made a break into the circle the crowd had formed around them, knocking over a mother-son pair when they froze. "Outta the way, please. Get, ah, outta my way." The boy was fast enough to avoid a trampling, dragging his screaming mother away from another knife the Joker flashed to jolt the rest of the crowd into action.

"Good boy," he muttered, something clicking. Kids, he thought. Something about them reminds me of, ah, something.

A bullet spiralling over his shoulder made him twitch, bolting through the street and away from Wayne Tower.


	3. Plots and Escape

Heya - told you I'd update.

Of course, it's also almost a filler chapter, for which I apoligize for.

Heavily.

Disclaimer - I own nothing. And after I pay for school, I actually won't.

* * *

School buses.

He liked school buses – they were the perfect getaway vehicle between 7 to 9 am, and 3 to 5 pm. And nobody looked twice at a lone guy driving a school bus during the day, either.

Except that he'd already used school buses, and it really wasn't like him to be a broken record.

The man behind him groaned, and the Joker was brought back to his surroundings briefly enough to give him a kick to the head. One that was hard enough to make him shut up and go back to the lovely dreams he was having – one that contained a particularly graphic version of how the Joker got his scars.

Joker turned back to staring out the very broken window, very aware of the Bat-signal making its nightly sweep across the sky. The Harvey Dent fiasco may have placed the one atop the newly re-designed Gotham Central Police Station indefinitely out of commission, but someone – and the scarred clown was willing to bet what was literally his last knife that it was the ever interfering Commissioner Gordon - had set a new one up a few blocks down, on top of an abandoned, rundown building.

The same abandoned, rundown building he happened to be staying in, in fact. It was only a few more dozen floors up, and he had already figured out how to turn the power on and off.

"Now isn't that just, ah, a wonderful co-in-ci-dence?" he asked the unconscious man on the floor good-naturedly, not bothering to turn around.

As for school buses, there was a high school not three blocks from where he was standing.

"Another lovely, ah, _coincidence_," he murmured, chuckling as he pulled a thin sheet down in front of the window.

* * *

"Mr. Wayne." Lucius Fox's voice rang loud and muddled through Bruce's ears as he fought to sort out when and where he was.

It was just past twilight, the first rays of bright moonlight beginning to shine through the greenish glass on the 60th floor in Wayne Tower, right into his watering eyes. Bruce shuddered and heaved his aching head off the conference table.

"Have you returned to the land of the living, Mr. Wayne?" Lucius sounded just as wry as he had the last dozen or more times he had woken Bruce up after, or during, a meeting, though this time he could detect more exasperation in the older man's voice.

And his expression. Bruce, bleary-eyed and only half awake, could tell– regardless of the fact that Lucius was standing at the other end of the table with a security guard by his side – that he had been trying to wake him up for a while. "Yes, Lucius. I'm alive again," he said, straightening up with a yawn. "Though for how long I'm not exactly sure." He waved at the security guard. "What's this about?" His elbow dropped to the table, hand against his neck.

The security guard stepped forward. "Sir, at around 6:30 this evening we had a, well, an encounter with the man called 'The Joker.'"

Bruce barely managed to get a smirk on his face, holding his doubting playboy act together. Barely. "The Joker?" he said, an eyebrow raised. "Are you sure?"

The guard remained unfazed. "He had the scars, sir, and the laugh he gave was deeply unsettling." He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "He also managed to wound one of my men with a potato peeler. The man is now in the hospital, being treated for multiple stab wounds to the chest."

"Is he all ri—" Bruce glanced at Fox for a second before letting a shred of confusion enter his voice. "Wait - did you say 'potato peeler?"

The man's olive face tinted a light pink. "Yes."

"Was the man not wearing body armour?"

"He was wearing Kevlar, sir, and it doesn't do much against knives or sharp objects."

"Yet it works so well against bullets," Bruce mused, letting his head slip slightly. "Is the man alright?"

"Last we heard, it was non-fatal, and he should be back to work within two weeks."

"Good. As for the Joker...?"

"He ran off into the crowd. Brad – sorry, our man down – was alone outside at the time, so by the time we could give chase, the Joker had vanished." The man flushed a deeper red and Bruce raised an eyebrow. "It was against regulations to only have one man patrolling outdoors, sir," the guard explained sheepishly. "However, I accept full responsibility for the actions of my men."

Both of Bruce's eyebrows were reaching towards his hairline now. "'My-"

"Your men, Mr. Filo?" Fox asked, almost amused. "The army was a long time ago."

Bruce wasn't sure if the man could get any more red in the face if he took a pomegranate to it. "Of course, sir. I just – Never mind." He looked at towards the door and asked, "May I be excused? I need to go finish my report for this afternoon."

"Of course."

The two other men watched as the guard stumped out of the room, and Bruce winced as he slammed the door behind him. "It's a little late for you to be waking me up, Lucius," he muttered, turning to face the older man. "Especially after news like this."

Lucius Fox's eyes closed briefly as he leaned on one of the tucked-in black chairs. "Believe me, Mr. Wayne, we tried to wake you up. Many, many times. In fact," he added, opening his eyes, "we did nearly call the ambulance – when did you get that slash across your neck?"

His arm automatically clamped down harder on his neck, and Bruce glowered at Fox. "Couple of nights ago – it's nothing. What worries me more is that the Joker managed to wound one of the security guards - why wasn't he wearing one of those body suits you invented?"

"The same reason the army isn't using them – they are simply too expensive."

Bruce scowled. "That's not the only reason, is it?"

Lucius shook his head. "No. We did have most of the outside guard wearing them for a while, but they began complaining about how the suits were too heavy for everyday wear."

Bruce begged to differ, but Fox cut him off before he could get a word out. "Well, Mr. Wayne, not all of us go _spelunking_ all the time. Or hang-gliding. Or parachuting."

Bruce groaned and stood up slowly, keeping his hand clapped to his neck. "Remind me why I hired you again?" he grumbled, heading towards the door.

"You hired me? I thought you just inherited me," Fox shot back with a half grin.

"Sometimes I think it's the other way around," Bruce muttered. He felt a firm hand on his good shoulder before he reached the door, stopping him in his tracks.

"Take a night off, Bruce," Fox advised firmly. "Gotham won't fall in a single night – and no, you may not bring up that time when I had to concoct enough antidote for the entire city. You can lean on the police once in a blue moon. They can be run well enough while Gordon is there. You say so yourself."

"I do?" Bruce asked wearily, shrugging Fox's hand off. "I don't remember that.

"You do. Besides, you need to be a good example for the kids tomorrow, and to do that, you need sleep."

His eye twitched. "What kids?" he demanded, twisting his head to look at the man behind him.

"A high-school is sending some of their top students from business classes, grades eight to twelve, to see how we deal with day-to-day decisions. Really, Mr. Wayne," Fox admonished, "I spoke with you about it weeks ago. They expect you to be there."

"Weeks ago would be when I had the flu and a fever of a hundred and two. Do you really think I was in any way lucid?" he snapped.

"You were lucid enough to go out and fight 'those blasted criminals,' as you put it, until three in the morning every night during that brief period," Fox pointed out, sighing. He walked slowly past Bruce and opened the door. "I can't bodily stop you, but take a rest," he said before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

Bruce was left glaring at the heavy wood door as though he could make it combust. When it refused to burst into flame and remove itself from his way, he shook his head wearily and opened it, setting off for the elevator, the underground parking lot, and finally bed.

* * *

Arkham was on edge ever since the Joker left. Nobody was quite sure how he managed to escape, save one guard and one prisoner – and neither of them were talking; this was mainly because the guard was dead and the prisoner was planning to escape in the same way.

Well, two prisoners, actually, and they were both quite capable of acting perfectly sane in polite company, though one would stand out like a sore thumb with his face the way it was and the other had a difficult time keeping his psychoanalysis of other people to himself.

And together, they didn't think it would be too difficult to follow a madman out of an asylum. It only took a small degree of murder and absolutely no mayhem.

* * *

(In case you're wondering what the update was,, I fixed a couple of things up in this I didn't notice before.)


	4. Let the Fun Begin

Heyo.

It's 12:30 am.

I have stoppered procrastinating.

I'm gonna read my book now.

G'night.

Disclaimer - I own nothing.

BTW, if you want to look up a Koenigsegg, they are very pretty Swedish cars. Only 650K each.

* * *

Bruce woke up on his own that morning, wondering why he felt so, well, so normal. Usually he was aching from the last nights' fresh bruising and new scrapes. His lip twitched into a half smile and he sat up. Maybe Lucius was right all those hours ago when he suggested taking the night off.

Then he rolled onto the floor and four select points on his torso started screaming at him, and his neck decided to add in its two cents a second later.

Landing face-down on the carpet this time, Bruce really hoped nobody had been watching that. Especially not Alfred.

* * *

It wasn't too hard for him to get a school bus, oh no no no, it wasn't. The kind lady behind the desk at Gotham Central High was more than pleased to hand him the keys to the bright yellow bus: more than happy because that grumpy old man who usually drove the bus had called in that morning and said that he quit and nothing she could do could make him come back.

Of course, that kind lady behind the desk didn't know that the grumpy old man had been killed the night before and the pleasant man with a scarf wrapped around his neck and face wasn't really so pleasant.

The Joker made sure that he smiled at every single teenager that walked onto the bus that morning; every shy, cocky, hesitant, brilliant, and downright insolent teenager. Even though they couldn't see the scars, they walked past his seat very, very quickly, making him smile all the wider.

The last person to board the bus was a harried-looking, thirty-something year old woman. "You're new," she said coldly before settling into the seat that overlooked the stairs. "You better know how to drive this thing."

"Course I do, darling," he smirked through his scarf. "You just, ah, turn this key _here_, and press down on this here pedal, and, ah, off we go." The woman looking properly mollified, he drove through the streets of Gotham towards soon-to-be-ransacked 'Rome.'

Alfred walked in fifteen minutes later while he was finishing his hundred push-ups, carrying his usual poisons and breakfast. "You're up early, Master Bruce" he commented with raised eyebrows, setting the tray down on the bedside table. "I thought bats were nocturnal."

"I took the night off," he huffed, sitting up and reaching for the first of the many drinks. "Decided that Gordon could take care of Gotham for one night, at least."

If Alfred's eyebrows could have gone any higher, they would have, but the rest of his face remained stoic. "Did Mr. Fox finally manage to talk some sense into you, or have you slammed your head into too many walls lately?"

Bruce glowered at him over the edge of his cup. "Neither. I –"

"- have been brainwashed. Protein drink?"

Bruce traded his empty cup for another full one. "No. Wayne Industries has volunteered to be a showroom for high school business students today and I have to be awake."

"That must be such a strain, sir."

"It is. I have to be conscious during all the meetings."

"Indeed. Whatever were they thinking when they chose you as a role model?"

Bruce didn't have his mouth empty or a retort thought up by the time Alfred had exited the room and had to settle for eating his way through the rest of breakfast in silence.

Bruce's new Koenigsegg, his replacement for the Lamborghini he had not-so-recently lost to a truck, slid into its parking spot seconds before a school bus pulled into the visitors' lot.

His entry into the main lobby didn't go unnoticed. He could feel the stares of the morning shift following him as he walked towards the elevator and heard murmuring as he pressed the elevator call button. Bruce sighed and turned around. "I'm in before noon," he said to nobody in particular, letting his eyes drift across the different faces. "It's shocking, I know." Then he turned around and walked into the waiting elevator, hitting the close button before anybody else could get in. Not that the few men and women behind him were wanting to at that point.

The ride between the high school and Wayne Industries seemed to take forever and a day. It was loud because of the students, stunk to high hell, and every time the Joker turned on the radio to drown out the brats in the back, the woman beside him would reach over and flick it to country.

He hated country.

A lot.

To the point where he preferred listening to the snickers of the three teenage boys sitting behind him as they tossed little bits of foam they picked out of the seats at his head. While he could appreciate their aim, he wanted very, very much to take his scarf off and scare the crap out of them. But since that would reallyreallyreally blow his cover, he settled for tossing them back and hoping they would inhale the bits.

And choke to death.

It was not a good day, but he was going to make sure it got better soon.

Reeeeeaaal soon.

They pulled into the visitors' parking lot with a jolt as they went over a speed bump, almost an hour after setting off. The Joker tapped the clock on the dashboard with a knuckle, scowling. Only an hour? Was it lying? He got his answer as the thin hand counting the seconds came to a stop as it passed the fading '10' and promptly fell off, taking the hour hand with it, leaving the minute hand quivering on '11.' It didn't move all the while it took him to find a decent parking spot for the bus – well, the curb was so _inviting_ and empty of obstacles, but that _woman_ kept on glaring at him whenever he edged too close to the sidewalk. The parking spot he did find was barely three feet from the wrong entrance of building, and if he had to be honest, was really two or three or four parking spots.

Hey. Nobody was complaining about it, and it wasn't like _he_ was coming back for the damn thing. It was going to take a dump truck for that.

Ms. Country-fan was the first off the bus, leaving him free to punch the radio into blessed silence. Every time he had tried to turn it off she had glared at him and whacked his hand away from the knob for the last fifteen minutes of the ride.

Oh, was she ever going to get it later.

So were those three little pests behind him.

He followed the last brat off the bus a few minutes later, the scarf hiding a vicious grin.

Bruce sighed inwardly at Fox's expression – the man had looked like he was going to have a heart attack when he entered the meeting room in the morning, and now he looked a little smug. Not that it showed, of course, Fox was too suave to gloat visibly, but Bruce knew nonetheless.

At least he was seated comfortably when Fox leaned over and muttered with a smile in his voice, "Was your night off refreshing enough for you to be able to pay attention today?"

He muttered back 'Yes' and turned his attentions to the group of fourteen exiting a cramped elevator. Which meant, unfortunately, that he had to stand up and shake all of their hands and try to remember all their names.

Fortunately, that was why he had Lucius with him, among other things – such as keeping twelve business students occupied.

Everything was going just peachy for the first quarter of the day – most of the students were just as bored as Bruce was, but they were allowed to show it, and the rest of them were busy paying attention to the PowerPoint Fox had created for them.

Counting among those that didn't look particularly bored or engrossed in the presentation were the scarved bus driver, a mature-looking teenage girl who kept sneaking sultry looks at him, and a chubby boy who was trying to look inconspicuous as he raised something to his face.

CLICK-FLASH-SNAP.

The lights snapped on in an instant. Bruce, Fox, and everybody else in the room whipped their heads over to where the chubby boy was peeking smugly over a camera. "What?" he muttered as Fox waved a security guard towards him. "Didn' do nothin' wrong."

"The form you signed before entering the elevator stated 'no cameras' quite clearly," Fox said sternly, holding his hand out for the prohibited object. "Now, you can either give it to me and have it returned, picture-less, at the end of your stay, or you can have it taken away by Mr. Filo here. You choose."

The kid grumbled as he slid the pocket-sized rectangle across the polished table. "It was just for th' school paper, y'know."

He cowered when the security captain, Fox, and Bruce glared at him. "So-orry, geez."

Fox shook his at Filo, who looked like he wanted to forcibly remove the teenager and shooed him away to turn the lights out and close the door behind him as he left. "Now," Lucius said amiably, clicking the presentation back into progress, "why don't we finish this so we can tour the building?" A chorus of relief sounded almost in audibly from the room as they settled back in, before the students realized how much longer the Powerpoint was going to be.

Ignored by even the sultry-girl now that the sulking teenager's camera had been confiscated, Bruce settled into his chair for another half hour of tedious slides.

He wished he was dead.

Correction – he _reallyreallyreally wished he were dead._

He didn't sign up for this. Please. The torture of driving a school bus full of _joyful little bastards_ was absolutely _nothing_ compared to sitting in a room with them as they were chained to the seats and forced to watch some guy talk about business.

Pain was a laugh. Fear drugs, a high. Chaos, candy. But this? This was hell.

If Arkham ever caught on to this, the inmates would be reformed in no time.

At least it had ended all of threeish hours ago. They hadn't really passed any clocks since lunch, and chaos needed no watch. Which meant he didn't have one. Now, they had been handed over to that security guard who was taking them on the extra-special-really-long tour around the building. At the moment, they were with Mr. Wayne, by the window in a third-floor observatory, without the annoying PowerPoint guy.

"So why the scarf, if you don't mind me asking?"

The Joker flinched. He hadn't even heard the man creeping up behind him. For a multi-quabillionaire, the man was quiet. "Got polio something, ah, nasty. You reeeaally don't want it."

Something flickered in the taller man's eyes as he spoke, but it disappeared instantly. "Polio? In the middle of Gotham? "

The Joker smirked and pressed the button in his pocket. "Yup."

Something exploded outside, followed by several more, smaller somethings, sending a wave of heat roiling through the windows and onto the sixteen people pressed against them.

The woman in charge of the teenagers fell over and shrieked, "What the hell was that?!"

Bruce spun to face the window, wincing as heat emanated off the glass, and peered outside. The visitor's parking lot was a mess; metal strewn everywhere and moderately sized fires blazing away near the building. He could only imagine what the side of the building looked like. "Filo! Get out there and find out what just happened!" he yelled, turning as the bus driver sprang away from his side.

Something bright slashed between the two men as the scarved man stated calmly, "I don't think so." The security captain doubled over, clutching his gushing neck.

Even the teenagers snapped out of hysterics and into a shocked silence, staring at him. And as they all watched, the Joker pulled down his scarf and gave a dark chuckle that escalated into a hyena laugh. "Welcome to the, ah, party," he said, holding a sharp, dripping knife casually in front of him. "Let the, haha, fun begin."

* * *

(In case you're wondering what the update was,, I fixed a couple of things up in this I didn't notice before.)


	5. Let's Play Catch

Boo. Funny how I'm always updating between 12 am and 3 am. It's like I _don't freaking sleep._ I need sleep.

But I'm more likely to read fanfiction all night and be very, very screwed for tomorrow.

Oh, well. That's what they make coffee and energy drinks for.

Disclaimer - I own nothing but my attitude. And I had to find a dummy willing to sell that.

* * *

The multi-quabillionaire broke the silence first. "You don't even know what polio is, do you?"

"Nope. Don't really, ah, need to, either." The Joker was more than a little confused. For starters, why wasn't this guy cowering in the corner with the rest of the group, 'specially after watching his security guy drop dead of his accord?

"I didn't think as much. Now, why are you here?"

Money might not buy happiness, but it sure as hell bought this man an attitude.

"Me? I'm a man of, ah, simplicity," he drawled, pulling both hands out of his pockets. "I am. Really. Which is why I am only here for the, um, ransom." Thumbs pressed firmly down on a pair of what looked like tape recorders, the Joker raised them to ear level. "Know what these are?"

One of the girls behind Bruce screamed. "It's a bomb, he's gonna kill us!" she shrieked, clawing at the window latch above her.

"Missy, if you don't _cut that out right now, I'm going to_ _kill you._"

She paused, nails already hooked into the release. "How?"

This day was just getting odder and odder. First a multi-quabillionaire that has a pair, and now a girl that asks how she's going to die. The Joker shook his head and gave a low chuckle, shaking his hands too. "See these?" he asked, looking them all in the eye one by one. Once they nodded, he continued. "One is a bomb trigger." He let that last word roll off his tongue slowly as their frightened expressions lessen slightly. "The other one is a, well, bomb." Their expressions tightened again. Silly students, thinking they were out of danger.

They all shuddered, though if he thought about it, the one from Brucie was looking a little forced. Or was it anticipatory? Oh well. "If one of you messes up, I let go of one of the triggers. Maybe you'll get _lucky_ and it won't be the, ah, bomb.

"Or maybe you _won't _be so lucky." He cocked his head and smiled, facing the man who would be his payoff. "I want _you_ to get _me_ on the phone, ah, with someone who can pay me."

* * *

Bruce was struggling to keep his voice – and his muscles – under control. He was somewhere around two seconds away from breaking his cover and either growling at the clown or tackling him. Either was bad, though one would break his cover, while the other would get them blown up if he couldn't get his hands on the dead-man's switches fast enough.

At the moment, though, all he really wanted was his suit, the one that didn't come with three buttons and a complimentary noose, and his mask.

One second away from snapping rolled around when the clown grinned even wider and shook the triggers in front of his face. "Tick tick, Brucie."

Instead of cracking, he whipped his cell phone out of his pants pocket and dialled Fox, pressing the button for speakerphone. The man picked up halfway through the first ring and cut him off. "Mr. Wayne! Is the group safe?"

His voice dripping in sarcasm, Bruce answered, "Why yes, Mr. Fox, I am perfectly all right, thank you for asking. However, I'm in a bit of an awkward situation at the moment."

He could feel the room staring at him incredulously. On the other end, Lucius went silent for a moment. "Awkward situation, sir? What kind of awkward situation?"

"Kidnapping and threat of – "

"_I'm going to kill everyone in this room if you don't hurry it up, Brucie."_

" – why don't you talk to him. Mr. Fox, meet the Joker. Joker, Mr. Fox."

"The Clown Prince of Crime, _THE JOKER_."

Bruce winced as the scarred man bellowed in his ear. "The Clown Prince of Crime, The Joker."

"Now now, Brucie, I'm embarrassed."

* * *

The Joker cocked his head to the side as Bruce put held out the phone. "What, exactly, do you, ah, want me to do with that?" he asked, glaring at the man and waving his hands about. "Look, no hands."

The man rolled his eyes to the ceiling and left them there. "Speak into it. It's on speakerphone."

"Now now, Brucie." The clown grinned wide and let his right thumb twitch up a little. "My patience is, ah, wearing thin. So my thumbs might, well, they might slip. _See?_" His arm whipped forward and he threw the not-so-innocent object at the ceiling-admiring man with a long laugh.

His laugh grew louder as everyone screamed.

* * *

Two-Face, Harvey Dent, whatever you wanted to call him, didn't die from his fall. After having survived the process of half his face being burnt to non-existence, a four-story fall was nothing. No, that had just ruptured something – he still didn't know what, the doctors refused to tell him – and he woke up, arms strapped to the railings, in Arkham's version of a hospital. They had a decent one, too, if the amount of machines he had been hooked up to was any indication, and his recover had been swift and painful.

Not necessarily painful for him, though. Anybody within biting, head-butting, or kicking distance knew differently. Which was why, by the end of his recovery week, his legs and forehead had been strapped to the hospital bed too – _you try helping fate along like that_.

It had gotten better once he was switched to a white room. Some 'kind' psychiatrist had allowed him to keep his half-tarnished coin on the basis that a familiar object might bring out the person he was before the fire – something they regretted miserably after they lost his life-deciding coin toss – _had been this close to strangling the guy_ – and had to be hospitalized – _bad thing the hospital was so close_.

Maybe that was the reason the hospital was on the higher end – to save patients, doctors, and guards who came in contact with guys like him.

Still, the new straightjacket had made it a little more difficult to flip coins – _damn difficult_.

One week later, it had come off. An hour later, it went back on because his cellmate, a guy whose 'voices' wouldn't stay shut up in his head and made themselves known through too much verbal argument in different vocal tones, lost the coin toss and – _I ki-i-i-lled him_ – died of asphyxiation.

It only took three days to convince the guards to take off his straightjacket, on account of good behaviour and a promise not to kill his companions-in-insanity. What they didn't know was that his new cellmate had won the toss this time, and he actually made for decent conversation.

* * *

When they brought the man into his cell for the first time, Crane couldn't believe his luck – a new patient, and one he could shape to his liking. The last few days had really allowed him to get to know the man, and appreciate his, well, insanity and the brief bouts of sense that appeared every once in a while. Particularly on those occasions when he started speaking in a more guttural manner.

Other psychiatrists thought he had two personalities; Jonathan and Scarecrow. Crane knew differently. If he did have two personalities, it would be simple enough for them to treat him, provided his second personality only appeared with the mask – take away his mask, permanently, and persuade him to start thinking against, or even fearing, the wearing of the mask, possibly even using "negative reinforcement," a.k.a. pain, to make him think something bad happened when he put on the mask.

That would be useless on him, though. He was a) a damn good psychiatrist himself and knew what the textbook doctors would try, and b) who he wanted to be, and there was no way possible, save complete amnesia, that would change him. He liked to study people when they were afraid, and his mask helped – along with his fear toxin. That might be why he was in Arkham to begin with, but still, he only had one personality.

His cellmate, on the other hand, was an excellent example of someone well on their way to housing conflicting personalities. Dent might have changed in some ways to become the person he was, the coin-flipping, anarchy-loving murderer, but it happened too fast. Before he knew it, something would push beyond what his crime-hating conscience wanted to do, and that would conflict rather heavily with his new anarchy-based religion of the gun. It was already showing itself in the guttural voice he spoke in whenever he looked at his blackened coin versus how his soft tone of voice when he spoke about a Rachel Dawes.

Crane would love to get a long look at how Dent acted in public. To see whether he went around flipping that coin and killing people in a crowd, or if he only acted homicidal when he was against smaller groups.

Of course, that meant they both had to get out of the asylum, but after watching the Joker saunter past their cell in a guard's uniform, macabre scars shadowed by the low hat and high collar and giving a brief wave to all the cells, neither of them felt it would be overly difficult.

And in retrospect, it wasn't.

* * *

(In case you're wondering what the update was,, I fixed a couple of things up in this I didn't notice before.)


	6. Negotiations

Heeeello. Another earlymorning/latenight submittion.

Disclaimer: I own nothing aside from my brain.

... Thank you darkknightwing for telling me it wasn't really the chapter.

I am a moron at 4 in the morning...

* * *

Bruce had caught the clown's thumb movement and refused to react, but once the actual damn maybe-bomb was flying through the air towards him, he dropped the phone and dove for the dangerous tape recorder.

He caught it before the trigger had time to pop up and he snapped his own thumb over it, cradling it to his chest as he skidded across the thinly carpeted floor. The rug burns were inconsequential, though, compared to how he nearly had his hand blown off.

Maybe.

He would have plenty of time to dissect the tape recorder and find out if it really _did_ contain any explosives, just as soon as he found a way to get a wide-eyed, screaming group of teenagers (and one woman) out of the building and a demented anarchist into jail.

Though out of the building might have to settle for the moment for him too.

"Nice catch, Brucie," the Joker drawled, seemingly unsurprised. Still, Bruce could hear the man's confusion, buried deep under the insanity. "Played, ah, football, did we?"

"No," he muttered sarcastically, rolling to his knees to glare at the man. The screaming had stopped and now the room was only full of gasping teenagers (and one fainted woman). "Catch-the-bomb is a regular game in my profession."

* * *

The Joker liked him.

He was _fun_, unlike some of the other ransom victims he had, well, _spoken_ to.

Though they were mostly gibbering on and on about how they didn't really want to die and how they can pay and please, please don't killmeohmygodhe'sgotakni-

Well. So anyway.

It was a real pity the man was probably going to die.

The Joker smirked and waved his free hand towards the downed man. "So Brucie, what're you, ah, gonna do with that?" he snickered, before glancing around the room at the students. Ms. Country-fan was down for the count, held up by a scared-looking eighteenish boy, who was looking greener by the second, and surrounded by a throng of the younger students. He snorted – as if she was going to help them.

He found it _very_ amusing that the three little pests were huddled into a corner on their own.

Right hand raised, he crooked his finger at them. "C'mere."

* * *

Faced with the choice of blowing himself up and blowing some other part of the building up, he didn't find it all that difficult a choice to make.

Bruce wanted to throw the tape recorder out the window. Or at the Joker.

Unfortunately, that would still leave the Joker with a bargaining chip – namely the other bomb.

There had to be _some_ way to get it out of the crazed-man's hand, but he was pressed for thinking time. For instance, there were three teenagers worth of thinking time shuffling anxiously towards the madman.

"Leave them alone," he barked, keeping his voice barely above the growl he used as Batman. The boys froze, looking at him almost expectantly.

The clown smirked at him and waved his hand to get them moving closer. "Or what? You'll let go? Be a, hmm, _good_ little citizen and blow us all up so little ol' me can't, well, _have fun_ with everybody in the city?"

If he had ever hated someone more, it was wiped away at that moment. His fist clenched around the tape recorder with a dull crunch, startling the teenager girl by the window into whimpering, and several others followed suit. The boys stopped again, but this time it looked like they stopped breathing as well.

"Hello? Mr. Wayne, are you still on the line?" Fox's calm voice cut through the tension like a narrow beam though fog.

To Bruce, that meant it didn't help whatsoever. "Yes," he managed to say through clenched teeth, keeping his eyes on the Joker. "Do you happen to have a reasonable alternative to our _friend_'swishes?"

"The building and surrounding area is clear for bombs, Mr. Wayne, if that is what you're asking." Fox's voice was too deliberate, too heavy. "Except for one room."

"Mine."

"Yours."

* * *

"Told ya so." The Joker was _very_ amused – nobody had tried quite _this_ hard to get away from him. At least, nobody trying to protect a room full of people. Even if one of them was dead already.

And who could help a dead security guard?

"Now," he drawled, sweeping his arms out wide. "Just _what_ am I going to do with, ah, _all_ of you? I only need Brucie, after all."

A horrified silence spread across the room as they digested _that_ little bit of information.

The girl who was once trying to open the window spoke first. "So what did you need all of us for then?" she said raspily, her breath coming in little gasps. He was betting she was going to faint next.

He pretended to think, going as far as to scrunch his forehead up and press one finger to his temple. "A way in?" he offered, head cocked slightly to the left, throwing his arms out in the classic 'I-don't-know' pose.

He was right. She fainted.

The phone broke the silence next. "You could use them as bargaining chips."

Now the man on the other end of the phone was beginning to interest him. "See, now, just whose side are you, ah, on?"

"My interest is to get Mr. Wayne and the others out of this building _alive_ and in one piece," the smooth voice answered. "And one way to do that is to get people out of your hands with the least resistance on either side. How many children are you willing to exchange for a car?"

* * *

Bruce stared at the phone on the floor for a second before following Fox's line of thought. _He_ could obviously take care of himself, while the rest of the people in the room, minus the exception of one or two more-in-shape-then-the-rest, would only act as dead weight.

If they were with the Joker for too long, that's what they would become, in a more literal sense.

Then something hit him like a safe off a building. "Where's the other bomb hidden, Joker?"

"_THE CLOWN PRIN-_"

"TheClownPrinceofCrime, TheJoker," he rattled off, getting off his knees onto his feet.

"Not telling. And I, ah, want a mini-bus. For four brats. And I'll even throw in the teacher for _free_."

"What do you say, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce could hear the caution in Lucius' voice – it was hard not to. Still, five out of thirteen people left behind was better than he had thought from the madclown. "I'll agree. How long for the bus?"

"It's here already."

* * *

If Crane knew any better, he would have sworn Dent already had the keys to the police car _before_ they left the asylum. As it was, they had only been free for an hour before 'coming across the station,' as the man had put it, with a macabre half smile on the ruined side of his face.

That was before he waltzed up to the door, surprised a cop coming out of it, and dragged him into the closest alley.

What Crane did know was that the cop had lost his flip with fate, since there were slight blood drops staining the collar of Dent's acquired uniform.

As it were, he was riding in the back seat. Dent said it was because no cop, no matter how dirty, would be caught alive with a perp in the front seat. To which he replied that if they had waited another three minutes, they could have had another uniform.

Crane was glad for the cage between him and Two-Face a second after the man's fist thunked against it.

It had taken him a good quarter of an hour before the man had calmed down. It was not a good quarter of an hour, considering how there were no seatbelts in the backseat, and Dent took corners and speed limits like they were merely suggestions.

He would have to work on those personality aspects.


	7. Boom

Mornin' people.... O_o* *o.O

Two fic's in one night.... I really should focus on my real writing............

Disclaimer - I write here. Do you think I own it? Nooooooo.

* * *

The Joker blinked. "That was fast," he muttered, stalking towards the windows. "_Too_ fast."

The phone was still on and answered him in a mild tone. "Mr. Joker, we try to plan for anything we cannot control, as well as keep the safety of our employees in extreme regard. That includes making concessions to people armed with bombs and keeping hostages. The bus, which is parked next to the South exit, has the keys in the ignition and is void of all people."

"Gotta be some trick."

"If you mean the part where I called the police, I haven't."

* * *

Bruce rolled his eyes. What would – what _could _– the police do to this madman? The first thing the Joker would do was eliminate the hostages – hostages _he_ needed to barter off so he could knock the man out without looking suspicious.

The madclown in question was currently arguing with Lucius about how he was supposed to a) believe that there was a non-bombed bus below, b) get all the hostages down there, and c) how much money the company was willing to part with in order to get it's poster boy back.

That last one set Bruce into a string of silent snickers. Considering how the clown had so nonchalantly torched hundreds of millions of dollars the month before, it sounded highly ironic to hear him try and wheedle as much money out of Fox as possible.

* * *

Negotiations were over _waaaay_ too quickly – though he had to admit, they usually didn't happen at all. The payee in question usually wanted a _live_ body, and he never had the patience to put up with whiny saps.

So in the end, they usually broke down. And he was left with no compensation.

But not this time. This time, he was going to get _every last cen-_

"How about I just write you a cheque and you let us all go?"

The irritating, confusing multi-quabillionaire interrupted him mid-thought and mid-sentence; it happened a lot when he spoke his thoughts out loud. "Write _me_ a, well, a _cheque_? And _what_ am I going to do with _that_?" he asked, voice dripping in sarcasm. "Cash it?" He was seriously starting to consider that the man was mentally deficient in some way.

That, or he was being this stupid on _purpose_, but that didn't make very much sense.

Nothing about this whole operation did anymore.

Not that he needed sense. What he needed were no police anywhere near Wayne Tower. Nonono sense, he just needed –

"- Chaos." He grinned widely and took his thumb off his tape-detonator.

* * *

Dent felt better in the driver's seat, even if the car he was driving made the whole thing a little ironic. He was certainly handing out _fate's_ form of justice, but out of a cop car with an escaped asylum patient in the back? There lied the irony.

And the mishap where the cop lost his toss. Killing a cop to use his car to pass out justice – _just my way of doing things right_ – ironic.

Driving took his mind off problems – problems such as people. How was he supposed to judge people? If they were in a crowd, he would get off one, maybe two or three, tosses before someone noticed the bodies – _sheep don't notice bodies_ – and besides, he didn't really want to judge _everyone_. Just the bastards skulking around in the alleys and their counterparts skulking around in their penthouses.

That was it. Nothing too strenuous – _that's no fun, limiting to one group_ – and he could stop at the end.

Except that once all the bottom feeders were dead, more would appear to take their place – _so judge them all_.

Dent slammed his hand against the centre of the steering wheel and growled. So much for taking his mind off things.

* * *

Crane was decidedly sick of the backseat. First, he had to put up with the indignity of the situation – he was the sane one of the group, so what was he doing behind meshed steel like a common criminal? Second, there was the matter of no seat belts – which that two-faced bastard up front obviously knew, since he had a) once been a cop, and b) because he had used the turns to try and bruise as much of his skin as possible.

Third came a second after Crane though his list was over. Third happened as they careened past a school a short distance from the less-slum-like of the slums. Gotham Central High.

Third was after the car started approaching the large billboard-like sign that appeared outside every school, and the main building exploded, toppling onto the car like an open hand. The front passenger seat was crushed, and there was a nasty line of wounds running along Dent's right side, staining his ripped, borrowed uniform a bright red.

It would match the drops along the collar nicely, he had thought for a moment, dazed by the blow. His head had slammed against the passenger seat, knocking him senseless for just a brief second.

Dent was worse off – he was completely unconscious.

That was when a rope of dread slithered into his stomach, and added Third to the list.

Third was that the doors in the backseat didn't open from the inside.

Fourth was that he smelt gas.

They could hear the explosion like thunder, even through the windows.

* * *

"No!" Bruce rounded on the clown angrily, eyes glaring daggers at the man.

"Well aren't you, ah, lucky," the Joker said nonchalantly, pointing at the device clenched in Bruce's hand. "I just _knew_ that I, well, _didn't_ have the bomb."

"You bastard. When this is over—"

Bruce was interrupted as the clown pushed him backwards. "Whatcha gonna do, Brucie?" he leered, leaning so his face was inches away from the furious multi-quabillionaire. "Call yourself a lawyer on me?"

* * *

Bruce clocked him.

He probably shouldn't have, he knew, but it was either slam his fist through the clown's face or throw him through the conference tables, hurl chairs at him, and beat him completely senseless – although he'd never actually been able to do that before – in front of a dozen and change people.

Bruce thought he chose the lesser of two evils in this case.

* * *

There was a dead silence in the room for about a second – and he was still on the floor, trying to figure out if he should be in shock that the guy really _did_ have guts when a reedy chuckle broke through his now bleeding lips. It escalated quickly into a roaring laugh, one that only _he_ could do and still sound menacing.

"Brucie!" the Joker exclaimed, bringing the laugh down to frequent giggles. "Did you just, well, _bruise_ your hand by _hitting_ me? What kind of be-_haviour_ is _that_?"

Bruce stayed silent, looking fully aware that he held a bomb in his hand and was being questioned by a man that should have been knocked senseless, but was laughing his guts out instead.

"Now, now Bruce," he said after a minute, voice stern and deep. "Answer me." He broke out into giggles a second later, making the occupants of the room attempt to cringe further into whatever spaces they were cramped into. Under the table was a popular one, though corners came into a close second.

Something went crunch outside the door and he cocked his head to the side. "Wouldn't happen to, ah, know what that is, eh Brucie?" the Joker asked slyly, tumbling to his feet. His balance was a _little_ unsteady, not too bad – but after only one blow? Jeez. The guy packed a punch. Maybe he was hireable as extra muscle...

"Naaah."

* * *

Bruce didn't know for certain what was behind the door, but he suspected it was either a clod-footed security guard or a clod-footed cop. Both would be wildcards.

Though when the Joker wrenched the door open, he wasn't exactly expecting an empty hallway.

"Come out, come out, where, ah, ever you are!" the Joker bellowed into the hall, rubbernecking to see on either side.

"I think that was Mr. Fox's hint that we should leave now," Bruce deadpanned, walking slowly towards him.

The man turned on him and snarled, "I'm the one making the decisions. _Not you_," before facing the hall again.

Bruce frowned. Even while fighting the Joker, he had never seen him this, well, odd. Then again, he'd been trying to beat him senseless, not trying to be a good kidnap victim.

He didn't think he was doing well, or was particularly well suited for that role, anyway.

* * *

(In case you're wondering what the update was,, I fixed a couple of things up in this I didn't notice before.)


	8. Exit Stage Left

Hey, look at what I found!

Ok, I wrote it. Sorry it's been so long - don't send the fanfiction police after me...

Hope to get another one up soon!

* * *

He was starting to regret not having much of a plan beyond step one, kidnap Bruce Wayne, and step two, receive ransom money. Much as he told Dent he didn't ever use one, he was, well, _lying_ when he said that. Please; it would have been impossible to set up a bank heist or bomb a hospital without _any_ plan. He just liked adding the chaos of, well, chaos into it.

Still. The Joker was left wondering what he should do.

So he took inventory.

He had one bomb, in the ransomee's hand.

He had twelve annoying brats of various ages, half of which were still awake. Only one of them was female, though the others were definitely cowards.

He had one country-loving woman, currently unconscious. That was good.

He had a no-button cell phone that was beeping at him from the floor.

"Are you going to get it, Brucie, or am I, ah, going to have to do something?" he snapped, not turning from the open door and looking down along the hall instead. There was nobody there, but hey; it never killed anyone to be over cautious.

Hey, wait, it did. There was this one clown-minion who kept looking left then right then left then right every time he crossed the street, right up until the day the guy he was running from knifed him from behind and laughed over his body.

Wait, that was him. Oops.

He pulled his head inside the room as the ringing stopped. "Fox?" he heard Bruce ask behind him, presumably into the phone.

The Joker was more than a little surprised to hear the boring-powerpoint man's voice emanate from the next room over as well, creeping under the tiny crack at the bottom of the door to reach his ears.

Fox's voice came out of the cell phone, and the Joker, still standing in the doorway, twitched and jerked his head to the right. Bruce ignored him, listening to the other man instead. "I assume this means you won't be leaving, then?"

Bruce sighed and replied," You'll have to ask TheClownPrinceofCrimeTheJoker," holding out the phone just as the Joker ran out of the room. Bringing the phone back to his ear, he clicked speakerphone off and said, rolling his eyes, "Never mind. He had something urgent to attend to. I have to go."

"Bruce, don't do anything rash – " He cut Fox off as he hit end call and pocketed the phone, still gripping the bomb in his right hand, and faced the half-dozen group of teenagers still retaining the ability to think. Grabbing one of the older looking boys, he dragged him to the door and dropped him behind it. "Lock it once I leave," he ordered, staring the kid in the eye and forcing his hand on the door knob. "Understood?"

Bruce glared until the teenager nodded, clutching the knob for what looked like dear life, and then dashed out the door after the deranged madman racing around his company.

He didn't have far to look. The Joker, standing outside the door, was grinning widely, holding his knife out as if he was waiting for someone to gut themselves on it. Catching himself just before that happened, Bruce skidded to a halt and raised an eyebrow. "Well?" he asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he waited for the man's next move. "Now what?"

When the Joker didn't immediately do Joker-like things, such as cock his head to the side, laugh like a hyena, laugh in general, or even grin, Bruce knew he had pushed his luck to the limits. Waking up in the morning pain-free had definitely messed with his head, and now, he was paying for it. At the rate the Joker's face was falling, he needed to get somewhere safe before the man snapped.

And of course, just then, the kid on the other end of the door remembered to press the lock in.

That... That... That was the last straw; camel's back was broken, and he was way past tired of playing games with a guy who twisted whatever was going to happen next into his own designs. Chaos wouldn't stand for this, oh no, so there was no way he would. This man, bajillionaire or not, was costing him expendable hostages; hostages he needed to get out of the building. He needed to pay. Now, damned money aside.

There were always easier targets out there, regardless of how small in comparison their pocketbooks were.

"Now, ah, Brucie," he growled, tightening his grasp on the knife and raising it to tough the side of his mouth, "do you know how I got these scars?"

Bruce fought the urge to roll his eyes and won. How many times had he heard that line before, always followed by a different story, though they all shared the same, very gory, theme, and had a tendency to end in a bloodbath. "No, I haven't," he answered instead, cautiously backing up.

This time, though, he didn't get another recounting of a fictional experience; the Joker tackled him first, lunging out with his knife and tangling up in his ankles as he stumbled backwards, trying in vain to stay on his feet.

His head, dropping to the floor with alarming speed, slammed into the thin carpet, not even the least bit cushioning the blow, and a wave of black streaked across his vision as his limbs stopped responding. His grip on the tape recorder bomb loosened slightly, until another hand tightened it back around the button and stayed there, resting it next to the knife blade pressing against his neck.

"See, my, ah, uncle; now he was a cruel man..."

Unfortunately, he could still hear. This was going to be torture.

"... and then he, ah, – are you listening?" The Joker licked his lips and prodded Bruce's forehead with a grimy finger. Nothing happened, and he leaned back until he sat on the man's chest, taking his knife away from his neck. "Playing dead, well, that isn't such a, mmm, good idea."

There was still no reaction, only a gentle rise and fall as Bruce's lungs worked to suck in air with an extra hundred and sixty or so pounds resting on them.

"Brucie, wake up," he ordered, waving his left hand, the one that held Bruce's right bomb-clenching one, around in the air. "C'mon, or it'll blow."

Something clicked by his head and he grinned. "Nice gun," he said with a leer, turning to face the metal barrel and look a man in full body armour in the eye as he rested his knife back against Bruce's neck. "Can you, ah, tell me where you got it?"

The barrel quivered slightly and the man backed up to stand in front of power-point man, shoulder to shoulder with seven more gun-wielding bullies.

"All this for little ol' me?" he wheedled, eyes wide as he glanced them all over. "I'm, ah, so flattered. Isn't that right, Brucie?"

Unconscious on the floor, Bruce had no answer for him. That could be a little bit of a problem – the unconscious part. Dragging a body that heavy, 'cause he sure looked it, down three floors and through the lobby was going to be di-fi-cult.

"Anybody wanna help?" he asked, cocking his head to the side and jerking his chin at the elevator. "I'll, ah, cut you in if you do."

Power-point man just sighed. "I would appreciate it if you would get off of Mr. Wayne. He doesn't particularly look comfortable."

"I'm not, hmm, particularly comfortable either," The Joker replied, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Now he understood why Bruce had done it – the ceiling was rather, ah, _interesting_ to look at when people were getting on his nerves. Far more interesting, however, was imagining what he would _do_ to those people when he had the chance. "Where's my, ah, ransom money?"

"It's downstairs in the minibus that we have waiting." There was a lengthy pause as Fox considered the knife quivering against Bruce's throat. "And, if you'd remove that, I can draw you a so you can get there by yourself."

The Joker's jaw nearly dropped. What was with the people in this place? Did they put something in the water that made them act differently to him? The money didn't matter any more – these people needed a lesson in _respect_.

"You. Fox. I don't like you."

"Fortunately, I don't see the problem with that. However, I'm going to have to ask you why, when all I've done is attempted to get you what you've demanded." There was a buried note of exasperation in his voice, but the Joker ignored it. For now.

"You're too, ah, not foxy."

The man blinked slowly. "I don't follow." The exasperation was getting more noticeable by the second, and now it was making the Joker feel like the man wasn't taking things seriously. Sure, he was all for a good time when it came to making mischief, but acting like The Clown Prince of Crime was wasting time otherwise spent was _not_ something that this man was going to enjoy. Not. At. All.

"I like foxes. Foxes are like me – wily, smart, and the world just can't seem to get rid of 'em. _And_," he drawled, stretching the word out as he yanked the tape recorder out of Bruce's unconscious grasp, "the world, ah, goes bal-is-tic whenever they show up. Just. Like. Me."

"And you don't like me because I don't live up to the connotation of my name?"

The Joker cocked his head to the side at the word connotation, but ignored it. "I just don't like you, ah, _period_."

Then, giving the seven bullies and Fox deranged grin, he pried the bomb recorder out of Brucie's unconscious hand, tossed it straight into the air, and threw himself backwards while laughing uproariously.


End file.
